


What could have been

by lotrfan88



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-09 03:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18908926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotrfan88/pseuds/lotrfan88
Summary: A rewriting of parts of Season 8 to include Sansa/Sandor interactions/moments as they could have happened in each episode. Mostly show-compliant. Includes some book-only references.





	1. Episode 1

Sansa watched the thousands of soldiers march up the Kingsroad and through the gates of Winterfell. She hadn’t imagined that there would be so many; so many willing to fight for the Northern cause. It almost seemed too good to be true. But despite the fact that she knew this was the only way they could even attempt to survive this war, thoughts of food storage, of housing and shelter, couldn’t help but race through Sansa’s mind. The North was already growing limited in its supplies. How would they fend having to support three separate armies? What with the Dragon Queen’s soldiers and fighters from across the sea, Jon’s northern wildings, and the countless southern armies that had allied themselves for the cause. Not to mention whatever help Cersei was providing; although Sansa was skeptical that Cersei Lannister would actually agree to a truce.

As she stood atop the battlements, gazing out, Sansa’s eyes fell upon a single rider cantering up the road atop a coal-black stallion. Her breath caught in her throat and she felt her heart pound more quickly than normal, as a cold shiver ran through her limbs. It was almost as if her body couldn’t decide whether it was excited or terrified to see the man. It had been years since their last encounter, though Sansa realized now that she had actually dreamed of him quite often since then, of the night they had parted ways, of the cloak he had left for her, of the kiss… Sansa felt her face begin to heat, despite the bitter cold air around her. She shook her head and glanced around the walls at her own soldiers and bannermen, before her eyes returned to Sandor Clegane once more.

She’d thought he was dead. That was what Arya and Brienne had told her when they had recounted their chance encounter in the Riverlands. Brienne had wounded him critically, and Arya had left him there to die. Yet, there he was, seemingly alive and well, trotting up the dirt road into her home.

The procession had nearly reached the gates, so Sansa turned away from the wall and headed towards the stairwell that would lead her to the yard. She would need to be poised and composed to accept Jon and his Queen as her guests.

As she hugged Jon once again and greeted Daenerys Targaryean, her thoughts shifted from Clegane to the Dragon Queen. Sansa was wary of her, but Jon was clearly smitten, so she would have to remember her courtesies and try to believe she could trust this outsider. As the introductions drew to a close and the most prominent of the lord bannermen made their way to Winterfell’s Great Hall, Sansa took one last glance around the yard. Sandor Clegane was nowhere in sight. He might have been farther back in the procession than she’d realized; men were still pouring through the gates one after another. Or perhaps he had elected to stay outside the walls for the time being, as she feared many would need to. Sansa wondered if he would still remember her after all this time. She turned from the gate and made her way into the Hall to continue her duties as Lady of Winterfell.

***

By the time the various war counsels and planning discussions were at an end, the sun had already disappeared from the sky. Sansa entered the yard once again to survey how all of the soldiers had been able to situate themselves. It was crowded everywhere she went, but somehow they all seemed to be managing. As Sansa approached the armory and forges, she spotted her sister. Sansa assumed that Arya was probably after some kind of powerful Valyrian steel weapon with which to fight the White Walkers. She had no doubt that her sister would insist on being in the thick of the fighting once the war began. Though she seemed to be a capable fighter, following her time in Bravos, Sansa still couldn’t help but worry for her little sister’s safety in the chaos that was to come. Sansa watched the armory, lost in her thoughts, but her mind went blank when she saw Sandor Clegane exit from where Arya had just entered.

He sheathed his sword as he exited the armory and began walking through the darkness. Sansa couldn’t tell where he was heading, but couldn’t help but wrap her cloak tighter around her shoulders and follow after him slowly. She thought of all the chance encounters she had had with him back in King’s Landing. It had seemed as though he had always appeared when she was most in need of some sort of reassurance that some good still existed in the world. Though she remembered how he used to scare her at the same time that he treated her gently. Now it almost seemed as if she were the one keeping tabs on him, as she followed him through the darkness.

Suddenly he stopped, and Sansa feared he had become aware of her presence. She took it upon herself to end the farce and call out to him. She was the Lady of Winterfell, she was much stronger than she had been in King’s Landing. She thought of calling “Ser” or “My Lord” but she knew that would most likely anger him. Instead she took another step closer to him and called “Clegane.”

He turned immediately to the sound of his name and she saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“Thought someone was following me,” he said, his face set. “Didn’t think it would be you. Used to be you avoided me, couldn’t even look at me.”

Sansa held his gaze steady. She wouldn’t look away, wouldn’t even look to that scarred side of his face. Only his eyes. She was no longer afraid of him. She knew the truth that those eyes held. Sansa took a few steps closer to him until they were only a few feet apart.

“That was a long time ago,” she said steadily. “I’ve seen much worse than you since then.”

Now he was the one who couldn’t meet her eyes. He glanced down for a moment and she could see that his eyes were filled with regret. He returned his gaze to her.

“Yes, I’d heard all about that,” he said, almost sadly. “All that Bolton cunt had done. And that Littlefinger whore selling you to him in the first place.”

Sansa dropped her gaze slightly and bit her lip as she was reminded of all that had been done to her. She didn’t know that he had heard of that, but she supposed the news of her second marriage had spread across the kingdoms. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her head once more, standing tall.

“I gave him what he deserved. Both of them,” she said.

“And what was that?” Clegane asked, still looking into her face.

A smile crept across Sansa’s face. “Hounds,” she said with a smirk.

Clegane’s eyes seemed to glitter for a split-second as a short laugh escaped from his lips.

“Seems like you’ve changed, little bird,” he said. Then a sad tone entered his voice once more. “But none of that would have happened if you had left King’s Landing with me.”

Sansa felt her face begin to flush again as she remembered their last night together in her bedroom, as the world was falling down around them. Did he remember everything that had happened that night? Did he remember how he had kissed her in the darkness? Or had she imagined it all? She suddenly couldn’t remember what was real and what was not.

“I’ve thought of that night often,” she said truthfully, turning her eyes away. “I did regret not going with you, truly. I’d had foolish ideas in my head and didn’t want to believe the truth. It wasn’t until you were gone that I’d realized how wrong I had been.”

Sandor Clegane only gazed down at her, looking at her the way he had seconds before he’d turned and walked out her bedroom door. She saw the same sincerity he'd had in his eyes when he had promised he would never hurt her.

“I am grateful that you were able to protect Arya instead, at the very least,” Sansa continued.

He smirked. “The wolf girl didn’t need any protecting. And she left me to die besides.” He looked as if he might say something more but stopped and was quiet for a time.

“We both endured great pains,” Sansa said. “And we both survived them, despite how horrible they were.”

She wanted to reach out her hand and touch his arm, or his face. To give herself that tangible feeling of connection. To…to what? She clasped her hands together.

“I…I should return to my chambers. It is growing late. I thank you for your time.” She tore her eyes away from his gaze, feeling a chill pass over her body once again. She turned away from him and made her way back across the yard, wondering if he was watching her walk away.


	2. Episode 2

It was the night before the battle. The last night, as some were calling it. The last night Sansa might see her family, her bannermen, her home. The last night before everything she held dear could be destroyed.

Fear was ripe within the walls of Winterfell, but among that fear Sansa saw brief moments of comradery, of happiness, of hope. As if these were the last moments that those emotions might ever be felt. As if everyone wanted to grasp and hold onto those feelings for as long as they could.

Sansa had wanted to spend this night with her family, with Arya, Bran, and Jon, but she hadn’t been able to find them anywhere within the keep or in the yard. It seemed they had different desires of how to spend their last night. Instead, Sansa found herself walking along the upper walls, gazing between the expanse of the North on one side, and the countless people piled in on the other. The tops of the walls were always a little windy, and tonight was no exception, but the cold didn’t seem to bother Sansa anymore. Her whole body felt numb from the looming thoughts of what might come on the morrow.

As she continued along the wall, Sansa saw two men sitting across from each other. She thought to turn back around; she wasn’t in the mood to put on her Lady of Winterfell face. But before she turned, her face changed in recognition of the man sitting on the right-hand side. She hadn’t seen him since their conversation a few nights previously. This time she did not hesitate to approach him. As she did, she saw him look in her direction, then take a swig from his wine skin. She did not recognize the second man.

“My lords,” she said when she reached them.

Clegane snorted and gave her a reproachful look. “How many times must I tell you, girl. I’m no lord,” he said.

The second man laughed. “Is that any way of speaking to the Lady of Winterfell, Clegane? It sounds as if you two know each other. Though why she would feel the need to waste her breath speaking to you, I have no idea.”

Clegane narrowed his eyes at the man. “Best keep your tongue behind your teeth, Dondarrion, unless you want me to cut it out.”

Sansa turned to the second man. “Dondarrion?” She asked.

“Beric Dondarrion, my lady. What an honor it is to have you grace us on this last night, as it were.”

Sansa realized then that she did know the man; she had seen him once or twice and heard stories back in King’s Landing, though he looked much different now.

“My lord, I did not recognize you. My apologies,” she said.

“I’m not sure if my own mother would recognize me at this point, my lady.” Dondarrion laughed and took a drink of his own wine skin.

“May I join you?” Sansa asked, glancing at Clegane, but directing the question more towards Dondarrion.

“Why of course, my lady. How could we refuse such a beauty?”

Sansa saw Clegane shuffle almost uncomfortably against the wall, and sit up straighter. She folded her skirts underneath her legs and sat on her knees in the center of the walkway, equidistance between the two men.

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable back inside the keep, sitting before a warm fire, all wrapped up in your furs, than out here freezing with the likes of us?” Clegane asked her, glancing at her face before taking another drink.

“I don’t feel the cold much these days,” Sansa said. “Though a drink of wine might serve to warm me for a bit.”

She held his gaze for a moment, and then curled her lips into a smirk. Clegane held out his wine skin in offering, never taking his eyes from her face. She took it from his hand, and averted her eyes before her face could begin to flush from the intensity of his stare. She opened the skin and took a long gulp of the wine, before handing it back to him. He took another sip.

“And how does the Lady of Winterfell come to know the Hound?” Dondarrion asked her, looking between the two of them.

Sansa looked towards Clegane again and met his eyes before turning towards Dondarrion.

“Sandor Clegane showed me kindness when I was a prisoner in Kings Landing,” Sansa said, smiling sadly. “Though I did not always realize it at the time.”

Clegane turned his head away from her and gazed down along the pathway to his right.

“He saved me countless times,” Sansa continued.

“Did he now?” Dondarrion asked. “All Clegane ever did for me was kill me.” He laughed again.

“Oh,” Sansa said, confused. She did not understand what he meant, but in looking at his face, she realized that he had a number of scars.

“Until his fire priest brought him back just to make my life even more miserable,” Clegane grunted.

“Don’t you believe yet that the fire is not your enemy, Clegane?” Dondarrion asked. “It has granted you a gift. Even our lady here has been kissed by fire, as the wildlings say.” He gestured towards Sansa. “Perhaps you two have more in common than I thought.”

Sansa looked towards Clegane again, this time her eyes focused on the scars across his face. Her head felt suddenly dizzy and she folded her hands in her lap, looking down at them.

“I believe I’d best go find a privy,” Dondarrion said after a moment. “I’ll bid you goodnight, my lady.”

He stood from the ground and she nodded her head towards him before he walked away, down the path she had come from. Sansa lifted her head to glance at Clegane. He was looking straight ahead, his eyes unfocused, as he took another sip of wine. He held the skin out to her once again, without looking towards her. She accepted and took another long sip before handing it back. She then stood from the ground and carefully walked to where he was sitting. She sat down beside him, pulling her knees up to her chest, her back leaning against the cold wall.

It was silent for a while. Sansa did not know what to say. She sat still, feeling the warmth of his body heat radiating beside her.

“So this is really how you wanted to spend your last night, is it?” Clegane finally asked her, breaking the long silence.

“It is better than spending it alone,” Sansa responded, staring at the wall across from her.

“Do you believe that we can win this fight?” She asked him, after another moment of silence.

“I fought those monsters up in the North with your brother,” he said. “It seemed damn right impossible then. Might be these dragons could change our fortunes. Only now those ice bastards got one of them too.”

“And is this how you wanted to spend _your_ last night?” She asked. “Truly?”

“Truly?” He repeated, but said nothing more. They lapsed into silence once again. Sansa leaned her head against the wall. She felt dizzy again. Perhaps she had drunk too much wine too quickly, she thought. She was not accustomed to the strong taste. She closed her eyes, and before she knew, she had drifted to sleep.

 ***

Sansa was startled awake by the sound of a horn’s long deep blast. Her head had been resting against Clegane’s shoulder, she realized, as she straightened herself. He was awake, though she had no idea how long she herself had been asleep. A second blast echoed in the night. Sansa looked to Clegane and met his eyes. Then the third blast came.


	3. Episode 3

Fires roared across the walls and yards of Winterfell as the battle raged on, and Sandor Clegane stood frozen in place. He backed into an archway, sword in hand, staring out at the soldiers fighting in the flame-lit darkness. He knew that fire was one of the only deterrents to the undead, but he still couldn’t bring himself to fight with it, or even to brave the battlements once it had been unleashed almost everywhere.

_Kissed by fire_. He thought of what Dondarrion and the wildling had said to him. He thought of the night King’s Landing had burned. The night he had fled out of fear of the green flames. He could turn his back on his people again tonight. Maybe even take her with him this time. If the dead won, as it seemed they would, she would die here with all the rest. But in truth, there would be nowhere to escape to this time. What bloody good was it to be here at all, defending the Seven Kingdoms from their greatest threat, if he was only going to turn craven once again?

Sandor looked across the sky and suddenly spotted someone moving across the rooftops, spear in hand, almost as if she were dancing. Water dancing, she had called it. He watched as Arya Stark, the little wolf girl, fought with all her strength against the dead. She spun her spear around like she had been using it all her life and stabbed at the dead around her, until a few started to beat back and she was knocked down onto an out of sight ledge. The words that her sister had said to him a few nights before echoed through his head now. _I am grateful that you were able to protect Arya instead, at the very least._ The wolf girl hadn’t needed his help then, but perhaps this time she did. He choked down his fear of the flames and ran off towards the girl.

 ***

Sandor held the door steady as the dead pressed against the other side, screaming and clawing at the wood to break through. Dondarrion was lying dead beside him, and the Stark girl was speaking to the Red Woman across the disheveled room. Sandor pushed a large table against the door as a barricade.

“Maybe that will keep them back for a moment or two,” he said, to no one in particular.

Arya turned to look at him.

“Thank you,” she said. Then she ran through a door in the back of the room and out of sight.

Sandor watched her go, wondering if he should continue to follow. He glanced at the Red Woman, the fire witch. She was watching him, looking him over as if reading all of his past torment, his fire-scarred memories. He didn’t speak to her; he’d had enough of these fire-loving cunts for one lifetime. Instead he strode past her, towards the door that Arya had used to escape.

The door led to a hallway, at the end of which was a window that looked out onto a small balcony. It looked to be the back of the castle, Sandor determined, gazing out. There was no fire or dead in sight at the moment so he smashed what remained of the window and climbed onto the balcony. From there, he climbed down to the ground, as easily as he could manage. As he stood glancing around the yard, he saw through a tall archway the fire from the main source of the battle. He could just barely make out the shapes of the dead men running and screaming. Arya was nowhere in sight.

Another moment for decision; should he return to the fray and fight until his breath gave out, or hide away and never look back? Then he saw the dead begin moving towards the back of the castle where he stood, only instead of reaching him they stopped under another arch and began beating against the thick door before them, as others began climbing the walls to enter the castle. It took Sandor a moment to realize that the door they were attempting to breach was the entrance to Winterfell’s crypts. He had passed by it during one of his recent times wandering around the castle. The crypts were where the women and children, or anyone not able to fight, were taking refuge, hoping to wait out the battle. And he knew that Sansa Stark would be with them.

In that moment, Sandor knew that he had to fight. He broke into a run as he approached the dead and began slicing through them with a newfound intensity and strength. He slashed at their flesh with his newly made dragonglass sword and watched as they erupted into ash with each stab. He was able to fight them back enough to position himself between them and the door. Between them and her.

He stood there and fought for what seemed like hours, but he couldn’t even tell how long it had truly been. There was no end to the dead. After a while, Sandor realized that not only were they assaulting him at the door, but others were digging into the sides of the rock, trying to carve their way into the crypts from the ground. He moved from the door and turned his attention to the ones on the ground, slicing through them easily, although he could feel his strength weakening. He was not away from the door for more than a few minutes, but he quickly heard the sound of splintering wood.

“Is there no end to you dead fucks?” Sandor shouted angrily, to which he received a chorus of screams in response.

He leapt back towards the door but was too late. The dead had pushed it open and were starting to descend the stone stairs. Sandor barreled into them, knocking a handful aside and slashing the ones on the steps. The ones behind him began trying to push past him, clawing and slicing at his back with their own blades. He grunted and fell to one knee, nearly tripping down the stairs. He stabbed at the one before him then swung his sword around wildly, knocking the others from his person so he could stand. One that had entered before him had escaped his reach and made its way entirely down the stairs and out of sight. Sandor let his fury fuel him once again as he pushed free of the dead in the doorway and bounded down the stairs in pursuit. The others were not far behind, but he needed to get to a flatter area. He couldn’t hope to fight them while they held the higher ground.

As he entered the crypts he heard the shrill cry of a dead man and turned the corner in time to see it falling to pieces. When it disappeared, Sansa Stark stood behind it, a small dragonglass dagger held out before her, a look of sheer terror plain across her face. When she met his eyes he could see them light with hope, and tears budded at their base. Then she blinked and stood up straight, looking past him to where the remaining dead were coming. He turned back around and held his sword up in front of him.

“Get back,” he said to her, and began his fruitless efforts once again. Only this time, there wasn’t a choice to make anymore. He had to win. So he fought.

Sandor heard the sounds of crumbling dirt and realized that the ones that had been outside were making their way through the ground and into the walls. He glanced their way for only a second, seeing Sansa making her way to the wall and stabbing at the body parts that were coming through. The other women and children had backed farther into the room, screaming in fear as the dead started to make their way fully through the walls.

Sansa stabbed at another but suddenly screamed as her hair was yanked back and she was pulled to her knees. Sandor looked in her direction to see the undead woman pull a dagger, poised to stab into Sansa’s chest. Sandor had no way to reach her, but before he could even muster the strength to yell, the woman suddenly burst into pieces, the dagger falling to the ground at Sansa’s knees. Sandor turned to see the dead behind him disintegrating one after another until there was nothing left but the wispy ashes of their flesh.

He fell to one knee, breathing hard, leaning against his sword for support. It was over. Somehow, someway, it was all over. Sandor heard movement behind him and the happy cries of the others in the cave. Then a shadow fell across his body and he looked up to see Sansa fall to her knees beside him. She gazed into his face and smiled, her eyes shining brightly now. Sandor didn’t think he’d ever seen her smile like that before. She reached out and placed her hands atop his own where he still held his sword. She closed her fingers around his palm. He looked at her face again, at her disheveled hair and sparkling eyes, then gave her a half smile before looking down again and releasing his sword from his grasp. It was over.


	4. Episode 4

Winterfell’s Great Hall was filled with the overwhelming sounds of celebration. Everyone was laughing, cheering, drinking, letting the energy of their happiness, of their victory, wash over them.

Sansa walked around the room with a cup of wine in hand, gazing at the different groups of people basking in the light of their survival. Some of her bannermen approached her to express their happiness, to ask if she needed anything, to thank her for all she had done for them, though it was Arya they ought to be thanking. Sansa continued to wander around the room until she spotted the man she had subconsciously been looking for.

He was sitting at a table, a wilding man standing behind him, with girls that Sansa did not recognize on either side. Clegane looked to be ignoring them, he didn’t turn to look at them when he spoke, only sat and took a long sip from his goblet. The wildling man appeared to grow tired of his lack of interest so he pulled one of the girls with him and left the hall. The second girl remained, hovering behind Clegane before sitting down beside him. Clegane continued to ignore her and poured himself another drink. The girl placed her hand on his arm and Sansa realized she was holding her breath as she watched the exchange. Upon feeling the girl’s touch, Clegane yanked his arm away roughly and growled a word of warning at the girl. Sansa didn’t know what he’d said, but the message was clear, and the girl fled from the table. When she was gone, Sansa approached slowly and sat down across from him.

“Couldn’t she have made you happy?” Sansa asked, looking only at her wine cup. She took a sip, and after a second lifted her eyes to meet his across the table.

“Very few things could make me happy anymore,” he said in response, taking another sip of his drink.

“And what might those things be?” Sansa asked.

“None of your fucking business, that’s what,” he replied, though his tone was not nearly as aggressive as it had been to the other girl.

“I suppose it would be foolish of me to thank you again and praise your bravery,” Sansa said.

“Aye, it would,” he said. “You should be praising your own bravery instead. Good thing you had that dagger handy. Seems you’re not just a little bird anymore.”

Sansa curled her lips into a smile. She reached across the table and placed her hand on his, feeling the warmth of his skin. He did not pull away from her touch, as he had with the other girl; he simply looked down at her hand, then back up to her face.

“I haven’t been a little bird for quite some time,” she said. “Much like you have not been the Hound. We have both grown and changed, but still managed to come together once again.”

“All those girlish fantasies about knights are gone now, are they?” He asked, looking down into his goblet.

Sansa kept her eyes on his face, though he wasn’t looking at her. She tightened her grip on his hand slightly.

“There are some fantasies that I still find myself dreaming about,” she said. “Though not about those kinds of knights.”

Clegane met her eyes once again. “And what might those be?” He asked, in a reflection of her earlier question.

Sansa held his gaze and gave him a half smile in response. Then she pulled her hand away and stood from the table.

“I think I shall return to my chambers for the night,” she said to him, giving him one last look. Then she turned away and exited the hall, her heart pounding in her chest.

 ***

Sandor sat at the table and watched the Stark girl walk away. The warmth of her touch still lingered slightly on his left hand. What in bloody hell was she going on about? With all her talk of fantasies and change. And that comment about returning to her chambers. The way she’d looked at him. It was almost as if…

He took a long gulp from his goblet, emptying it completely. Perhaps the drink would clear his head, though he knew it would likely have the opposite effect.

“What things would make me happy,” he said quietly to himself, staring at his empty cup. He wouldn’t dare tell her that she might just be one of those things.

_I haven’t been a little bird for quite some time._

Sandor stood from the table and looked around the room. He wondered if anyone had taken notice of the Lady of Winterfell sitting with the likes of him, a lowborn dog who was only ever good at killing, cursing, and drinking. What would those highborn lords of hers think of the way she’d looked at him, the way her fingers had curled around his hand? Everyone in the room seemed busy with their own engagements; drinking, kissing, laughing. Sandor strode towards the door through which Sansa had exited and entered into the interior of Winterfell’s castle.

He looked around the hallway. There was a stairwell to one end and various doors all around.  Others continued exiting the Great Hall, going off in different directions, but only a few ascended the stairwell. Sandor assumed the most important guests and lords chambers would be in the uppermost parts of the castle. Though how was he supposed to find her room among all the others? Perhaps he wasn’t. Perhaps he misread her actions completely. If she had wanted him to come to her, she could have at least told him where to go.

Sandor looked at the stairwell again and gritted his teeth, then began to ascend it. The stairs curved in a spiral and eventually reached a landing with a hallway containing multiple doors, but the stairs continued upwards even further. Sandor sighed and continued going up until he reached a second landing with fewer doors. He grunted under his breath. This was impossible. He wasn’t about to go banging on every door in the castle until he found the one he wanted. This was all just a mistake. Besides, he would be leaving on the morrow, and he was probably never coming back. Sandor took one last look down the hallway, then turned and descended the stairs.

 ***

When the morning came, and after the war counsels had ended, Sansa stood in the yard bidding goodbye to the warriors that were taking the Kingsroad back down to King’s Landing for what could be their final fight. She felt tired. Old dreams had kept her twisting and turning in her bed during the night. Thoughts of fire and blood, and kisses. Had she been expecting something else to happen last night? She pushed the thought from her mind, but it immediately returned when she saw Sandor Clegane walking his black stallion through the gate. He didn’t even so much as glance in her direction.

Sansa walked towards him at a brisk pace and called, “Clegane,” just as she had on that first night.

He stopped again, and turned to face her. She approached him calmly. It wasn’t dark this time; she wouldn’t be able to hide any nervous facial expressions, nor could she hide from the eyes of the others who filled the yard. She would have to maintain her lady-like composure and act appropriately.

“Were you not even going to say goodbye?” She asked, a hint of disappointment in her voice.

He looked her over until his eyes rested on her face. Was it pain that she saw in his eyes, or was she only imagining things again?

“Didn’t think there would be much use, seeing as this is likely the last you’ll see of me,” he said.

Sansa’s brow wrinkled.

“You will always be welcome in the North,” she said.  

“There’s something I need to do, and I don’t see it being an easy task,” he said, dropping his gaze.

Sansa walked closer to him until there was nearly no space between them. She placed her hand on his chest, stood on the tips of her toes and reached up to kiss him on the cheek. He was so tall, she could barely reach. She released him and took a step backwards. The look on his face seemed a mixture of anger and surprise. She knew that her face would soon begin to flush as she thought about what she had just done, but she swallowed her embarrassment and stood up tall and straight as the Lady of Winterfell.

“Good luck,” she said. “And please return.”

Clegane looked into her eyes for a long moment but said nothing in return. Then he turned away, mounted his stallion, and rode down the path. Sansa stood at the gate of Winterfell until he was out of sight and wondered if that was the last she would ever see of him.


	5. Episode 5

Sandor Clegane had been hoping to journey to King’s Landing alone, but somehow one of the wolf girls always seemed to follow him. This time it was the younger one, and she was hard set on being the one to kill the queen. Sandor didn’t mind her company as much as he used to. It seemed she had become less naïve about her ideas of death and more steely and determined. Though he still didn’t think she really knew what she was getting herself into. Regardless, the two of them had been traveling together for a few days and he hadn’t, as of yet, felt the urge to strangle her for any obnoxious antics.

The two of them had stopped for the night once again; they had made camp off the main road so as to avoid any passing armies or outlaws. Sandor didn’t think many people still roamed the woods these days, as they had before the winter began, but there was always a chance that some trouble could find them. He and the Stark girl had always seemed to attract trouble.

Sandor finished building the fire and leaned back against a tree in brooding silence. Arya returned from the woods and sat across from him, rubbing her hands together as she held them over the flames. Sandor stared into the flames as he sat, and for a second he thought he saw a wave of red hair. Red hair and a wolf crown. He furrowed his brow and leaned forward, staring intensely at the fire before him, but the vision was gone as quickly as it had come. He blinked and leaned back against the tree, turning his head to the side and gazing off into the dark woods.

“What’s with you?” Arya asked, still rubbing her hands together.

Sandor glanced over at her but didn’t meet her eyes. “Nothing,” he said.

Arya shrugged and sat back, crossing her legs. She took her sword from her belt and began turning it over in her hands. She had become quite capable with the blade, though her pride could get the better of her. Sandor feared it might once she reached King’s Landing.

“You obsess too much on your ideas of death and murder,” Sandor said, looking at her now.

“I have a job to do,” Arya responded.

“And what will you do when it’s done?” Sandor asked, though he didn’t know why he cared.

“Go somewhere new,” she said. “Somewhere with no memories.”

She sounded almost sad about it, but she still had that same air of pride in her speech. She knew what she truly wanted, even if it meant leaving things behind.

“You’ll leave that blacksmith boy pining after you all his days,” Sandor said, remembering how the boy Gendry had been asking after her the night of the feast. He knew that something had passed between the two of them.

“I can never be his lady, wasting away in a castle, raising his children. I’m not my sister.”

“Your sister…” Sandor said quietly, staring again into the fire. The vision from earlier did not return.

Arya stopped turning her sword and looked up at his face for the first time. He met her gaze.

“Are you fucking my sister?” She asked him blankly.

“What?” Sandor stared at her in shock.

“I saw her kiss you when you left, so I was just wondering what that was all about,” Arya said, in what Sandor thought was an extremely casual tone.

“Your guess is as good as mine, wolf girl.”

“But you want to fuck her,” Arya continued. “That’s what you said back when you thought you were going to die.”

Sandor laughed bitterly. “People say all kinds of things when they’re dying,” he scoffed. “Besides, I told you, I’m not coming back. Now go to sleep and stop asking me so many fucking questions.”

Arya only shrugged and went back to turning her sword in her hands. Sandor lay on the cold ground atop his rough blanket, staring up at the trees around him. He wasn’t coming back, he thought. Not even for her.

 ***

 The ash and smoke that filled the air of King’s Landing was intoxicating as Sandor made his way through the keep. He had sent the Stark girl away, and miraculously she had actually listened. She had looked so small when she’d stared up at him with those wide eyes, showing him that she really was just a scared little girl. But she was gone now, and he hoped she could make it out alive. The walls were crumbling around him as he walked and the city was on fire. How would anyone make it out alive?

At last Sandor found what he had been searching for. The Queen and her enormous guard were making their way down the stairwell. Sandor stood at the bottom in wait, staring at the monster that his brother had become. The Queen stopped, looking between the two of them, then made her way quickly past Sandor and away from the fray. He let her pass; she wasn’t the reason he’d come today.

His brother took slow steps down the stairs and drew his longsword from its sheath. Sandor watched him approach and every desire for revenge rushed through him. He launched himself up the stairs to the landing and their swords clashed together. Blow after blow his brother parried and blocked. Sandor landed a few hits, a few slashes, but they only scraped across the Mountain’s thick metal armor. His brother punched him and stabbed at him, and Sandor could feel his strength beginning to weaken as their fighting went on and on.

In a sudden surge of anger, Sandor swiped his sword across his brother’s face and knocked his helm to the ground in pieces. What he saw underneath the helm was a grotesque remaking of a man that Sandor barely even recognized. His face was stark white, covered in bruises and scars more disfiguring than Sandor’s own. His eyes were black, soulless pits that didn’t even seem to register emotion, though he was clearly overcome with a fierce rage to destroy.

Sandor began to back away, breathing hard from exhaustion. His muscles felt weak, his sword was heavy in his hand. He didn’t know how much longer he could continue this seemingly impossible fight. And the thing standing before him, he now realized, wasn’t even his brother at all. His brother was dead, and this thing was some alchemist’s reproduction of him. As if he had been pieced back together and been told only to kill. Sandor’s thoughts of revenge raced through his mind. Was it truly revenge against his brother if this monster was all that remained? Was there any recognition, any satisfaction to be had in defeating this thing?

_Please return._

Her voice echoed through his head.

_I’m not coming back_ , his own voiced reflected back. He was going to die here. How could he not? This monster seemed near invincible. No amount of stabbing or punching even seemed to make a dent. Pieces of the stone ceiling were falling all around them. The city was burning down. Sandor backed into the room at the bottom of the stairwell. There were piles of burning rubble all around. The walls shook with every piece of the castle that fell.

Sandor looked to the fires all around him. He had suffered through the flames at Winterfell. He had looked into the fires each night on his way to King’s Landing. If he was going to die anyway, what difference did it make if it was by fire or steel? Fire killed the dead men in the North. Maybe it could kill a dead man in King’s Landing.

The Mountain was trudging after him slowly, and Sandor began to back towards the closest fire. Sandor reached down and picked up a flaming bar of wood from the pile beside him. He held it out before him, swinging it wildly as his brother leapt towards him again. With one hand, Sandor met his brother’s sword with his own, while his other hand swung the fiery stick towards his face. The Mountain reeled back and Sandor could see the newly created burn marks, but his brother kept moving forward.

Sandor growled in frustration. He dropped the flaming stick and continued blocking blow after blow with his sword. The two of them danced around the flaming debris, as more chunks continued falling from the ceiling. Eventually, Sandor’s hand slipped, and he felt the cold steel slice through his upper arm. As he dropped to one knee, his arm surging with pain, Sandor reached forward and shoved his own sword, with all his strength, through the center of his brother’s chestplate, cracking the steel as it entered his torso underneath. The Mountain pulled his sword from Sandor’s arm and looked down at his armor, seemingly un-phased, then pulled the sword free on his own. Sandor just gaped at him blankly.

In that moment, Sandor had had enough. He staggered to his feet and with whatever force he had left, body-slammed his mountain of a brother into the flaming pile of rubble and wood behind him. Sandor felt his body burn as he touched the fire; his hair, his arms and legs, all erupted in white hot pain. He rolled to the edge of the pile and crawled to the open air, gasping for breath as he did. Another crash and shake, and more debris fell from the ceiling. It erupted as it hit the flames, and the fire grew even higher. Sandor saw his brother struggling in the flames, still alive for now, but he didn’t care. This was his chance. To take his own advice he’d given Arya and forget the foolish notion of revenge. This was his chance to live.

He turned and fled from the room, staggering through the remains of the keep, holding his still bleeding arm. He wasn’t turning craven, he wasn’t running away. He was surviving. And he now realized that he did have something good and real that was worth living for.  


	6. Episode 6

“Sandor.”

The voice floated into the blackness of his dreams. The sound was sweet, like the song of a bird. Was he back in Winterfell? Was the fighting done? He felt as if he could float away on that voice, and stay in the darkness forever.

“Little bird,” he said softly.

“SANDOR.”

This time it was louder. He could feel something, someone, shaking him. There was suddenly a stabbing pain in his left arm. The smell of smoke touched his nose. His eyes fluttered open and he was staring up at the gray sky. Bits of ash floated down like snow upon him. Then her face appeared in front of him, blocking out the sky. Only, it wasn’t her face. It was the younger wolf girl.

“I told you to leave,” Sandor said, then grunted in pain. His arm, he remembered now. His brother had stabbed it straight through before Sandor had pushed him into the fire.

“Lucky for you, I didn’t,” Arya said as she helped him sit up.

He could see now that he was no longer within the keep, but sitting on the street of King’s Landing. Everything was in ruins. Ash covered every surface he could see, even his own body. He tried to brush it away but it only swirled in the air around them, causing him to cough violently.

The girl had blood and dirt coating her face, Sandor saw, as she leaned over him and wrapped his arm in some sort of cloth.

“Can you stand?” She asked when she finished.

Sandor somehow managed to make it to his feet, leaning on Arya as he stood, before straightening himself.

“You need to get to the camp outside the city, where the other soldiers are. Your wound is filthy and could get worse,” Arya said.

Sandor only grunted in response, before following Arya through the smoldering streets.

 ***

Sandor didn’t know how much time had passed. He had been feverish, shivering and coughing, his head burning with pain. Then he was sleeping, dreaming, though he couldn’t recall the images he saw in his dreams. They were only unrecognizable flashes. Finally, he was awake, and Arya Stark was walking towards him once again. He was in some sort of tent, a basin of water rested on a table beside him.

“Feeling better?” She asked him, as she approached the bed.

“How long has it been?” He asked, trying to sit up.

“A few weeks,” Arya said.

“ _Weeks?_ ” He furrowed his brow. “Seven hells.”

Sandor swung his legs around the side of the bed to stand. The motion was too swift and he staggered, suddenly dizzy, but he was able to steady himself.

“You should take it easy,” Arya said, watching him.

“Let me be, girl,” he responded. “If I’ve been in this tent for weeks, let me at least breathe the bloody fresh air again.”

He staggered slowly to the tent entrance and burst through the flap. The sun was all but blinding, but his eyes quickly adjusted to the brightness. The area was filled with other tents. He saw wounded soldiers and civilians from the city, running back and forth, and some heading towards the city itself.

Sandor looked up to where the city stood. Most of the buildings were at least partially collapsed, walls blackened by fire damage, remains still covered in ash. But parts of the castle itself were still standing, as well as most of the outer walls.

“What’s happening up there?” He asked as Arya appeared beside him.

“The Queen is dead. Both of them,” she said. “My brother has been arrested. Now we’re waiting for the remaining lords of the Seven Kingdoms to arrive to decide what to do.”

Sandor grunted his understanding.

“They might not all arrive for another week or two,” she continued. “People have been trying to clean up the remains of the city in the meantime.”

Sandor nodded in acknowledgement. He thought of the days he had spent with the old septon, building houses and shelters for people who had nowhere to go. He could help these people too, it seemed. After all, he had survived; it was only right to help others survive too.

 ***

Sandor spent the next few weeks recovering his strength and assisting with cleaning up the streets of the city. Sometimes they found families that had been trapped within their houses or under the rubble for those long weeks, starving or dying, or dead already. Corpses lined the streets everywhere he went, and the bodies were piled together and burned. The wolf girl was sometimes with him, helping the sick or clearing piles of debris, but sometimes she disappeared and Sandor didn’t know where she had gone off to.  

Sandor woke in his tent another day and began the same routine. He splashed water on his face from the basin and rinsed out his mouth. It seemed like he was still coughing up ash, even after this long. He spit onto the dirt floor and wiped his face with a cloth. When he turned around, Arya was standing in his tent, looking the same as ever in her Winterfell garb.

“Good, you’re awake,” she said. “Someone’s here to see you.”

Sandor stared at her, but then his eyes shifted to the tent’s flap as Sansa Stark walked through, ducking her head. Arya looked at him smugly, and he narrowed his eyes at her.

Sansa walked with the same graceful air as ever she had, as she approached the two of them. When she stopped, she smiled up at him and her blue eyes looked as though they were filled with happiness for the first time.

“Clegane,” she said politely. “I am glad to see you looking well.”

“Aye,” he said in response. “But only because of your sister here.”

He gestured to where Arya had been standing a moment before but the little wolf girl was gone. Sandor looked around the tent but realized there was no point. She disappeared on him every day.

“She told me what you did for her as well,” Sansa said. “And what you’ve been doing for the city.”

“You going to say it’s very noble of me?” He asked her in a slightly mocking tone.

“It is,” she said, curling her lips into a smirk. “But I’m not the one who said it.”

He gave a small laugh and looked down at the ground for a moment before looking back at her.

“You seem happier than before,” he said. “I haven’t heard about what’s been going on with all the lords in their castle.”

“There has been a counsel,” Sansa said. She walked over to his bed and sat down on the edge, folding her skirts underneath her. “Bran is now the king. And the North will no longer be a part of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Your cripple brother is the King?” Sandor asked in astonishment. “And you’re still removing the North from the Kingdom?”

Sansa folded her hands in her lap and looked at him as she spoke.

“I am tired of the tireless squabble of kings. Bran will be a just ruler, and Tyrion is a competent Hand. But the North no longer needs to be ruled under such a throne.”

“So you’ll be heading back up to Winterfell soon, I imagine,” he said.

“I will,” she said, looking into his eyes. “And I have come here to ask you to join me.”

His gaze was steady with hers but he made no response, so she continued.

“Brienne will be staying with Bran, as the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard. As such, I will require a new sworn shield. Someone I can trust my life to, to offer me counsel in my ruling, and advice in all other aspects of my life. And I believe that someone is you.”

Sandor couldn’t help but laugh, as he broke away from her gaze.

“Looks like you finally got what you always wanted, little bird,” he said. “The Lannister cunts are dead, and you’ll be Queen in the North, with me by your side.”

“It _is_ what I have wanted,” she said as he met her eyes once again. “And I have wanted it for a long time. Do you accept?”

Sandor broke away from her intense gaze once again and picked up his sword from where it stood leaning against the table by his bed. He drew the sword from its sheath and knelt before her, laying it at her feet, his head bowed before her.

“I do,” he said, lifting his head and meeting her eyes. He saw them sparkle for a moment as she gave him a small smile.

“I will shield your back, and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new,” he said, repeating the famous words. Though he was not a true knight, he had learned the words as a child, when he had still believed that knights were true saviors of the kingdoms. Despite the fact that his views had been twisted and destroyed by all he had seen in Kings Landing and in his family, he had not forgotten them.

“And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table,” Sansa said. “I pledge to ask no service of you that may bring you dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

He twisted the side of his mouth to smirk at her, and she smiled down at him, her eyes shining.

“Rise, Sandor Clegane, Sworn Shield to the Queen in the North.”


End file.
